The Blanket
by XMidnightXWerewolfX
Summary: After the revolution, America slowly worked it's way to becoming the most powerful nation in the world, while England fell from the throne of the empire. How would this effect England, and how would those who know him best react to this?


Francis walked toward Arthur's house, a blue cloak thrown over his shoulder with a little smirk across his face. He had been feeling much more confident since Alfred left Arthur's control, and it was only that much greater since he had helped. He had even worn his outfit he only ever wore on special occasions, like parties between the nations, just where he could show off his true fashion sense. It included a nice blue and white hat atop his head, a long cloak that made it down to his waist and hung off his right shoulder, two shiny black boots, and the silkiest most wonderful shirt and pants.

Though as happy as wearing this outfit for a new reason made him, his eyes widened and smirk dropped as he looked at Arthur's house. It was covered in an eerie feeling that sent shivers up your body as soon as you walked onto the property, your breath and bravery leaving you as you thought of whether or not to investigate the source. Francis knew Arthur wasn't always the happiest of fellows, but this looked like he had a true raincloud following over his head, pouring on his entire life and flooding any joy he could possibly have found.

Francis knew exactly what had caused this, and as he looked down to his shaking hands and quivering feet, forcing them to stand still, but instead his teeth started chattering. It was as though he suddenly stepped into a freezer, and every time he attempted to take a step forward, fear surged through his body again. It took him a full five minutes to take one step toward the house, but afterwards his body slowly began to move and the feeling from before faded.

He took small tip-toes toward the house, looking around at the garden that was usually so neatly trimmed around his house, the flowers all dead now, wilting in the same depression as the grounds around them. He took a gulp, as he looked around he saw more things around that frightened him; the small birdbath had dried up, a few of the windows were broken and class scattered on the roof above, and he could see a series of bullet holes in coming out from the rooms downstairs. As far as anyone else could tell the house had been ransacked, but he knew different than to think that.

As he stepped up onto the porch and took ahold of the handle, the door slowly pulled open and pieces of the lock had broken off and been thrown across the floorboards. Light poured into the room, revealing a series of destroyed furniture, and random items thrown about the floor, including bottles of rum, a few swords, and two muskets sticking into the wall. The worst thing was the fact of blood across the floor, surrounded in bloody glass with a trail running up around the house, small little droplets of pain. Francis clutched his heart in guilt, he couldn't believe he had pushed Arthur that far, nor would he believe it, and in his head he started making a series of excuses, but only the worst came back.

He reached up to make sure his eyes weren't stained from tears as he heard a bit of movement coming from the attic. He gathered up what little courage was left in his heart and walked up the stairs, taking ahold of what was left of the railing with his left quivering hand. As he went higher, he heard the volume increasing little by little, until he was on the second floor and he could hear what sounded like sobs just above him.

As much as he wanted to turn around and run out of the house, not wanting to face Arthur after this, he took a deep breath, spinning with the railing and continuing up the steps. He tried to look to the right as he walked up, straight toward the wall instead of looking up into the clearly visible attic. Then as soon as the railing ended off he turned his head back, the very man he'd come to taunt and torture, already broken down in tears.

A breath he'd been holding was let out when he saw bandages across his arm, and he assumed Arthur had broken the glass and simply gotten cut on it, but the fact still remained he was broken down in tears in the attic. He could see the superpower cradling a blanket in his arms and holding it to his chest, refusing to let go of it, even as Francis came up. As he took a step forward, he was hit with the smell of heavy rum and he scrunched up his nose in displeasure.

A ring of rum bottles surrounded the man as he sobbed into the blanket, surrounded by more broken mirrors and shattered glass. He was wearing a simple white ruffled shirt that was torn from his own rage, and a pair of trousers that were barely hanging onto him. He looked like he hadn't eaten since the war ended and Francis put a hand to his head, muttering to himself "Oh mon dieu…. What have I done….?" He tip-toed over to the man, moving away the glass with the soles of his feet, not wanting got touch it and cut himself up. Then once he'd cleared a path he walked over to the sobbing young Arthur, hoping he was somewhat docile at the moment.

When he laid a hand on his shoulder, he received only another sob as a response. The way his fellow nation had been reduced to a sobbing mess broke his heart, even if they'd hated each other since they were created. A small tear trickled down his left cheek, leaving a wet shine across his perfect complexion and he reached up to wipe it away with his sleeve, not caring about the outfit he'd been so excited about only minutes before.

He reached down around Arthur's arms, trying to pull him to his feet and finding him very light, with almost no gut to him anymore. Tried to pull his arm away from the blanket, receiving an iron grip in return, refusing to let go of the tear-filled blanket, and Francis didn't dare try to force him to part with it again. He instead wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him close to support him with his own body as they walked, gripping onto the man's arm for extra support.

All Francis could think to do was move Arthur down the stairs, at least he wouldn't be surrounded by the broken glass and pain he was obviously feeling up there. Getting him down the stairs was definitely a chore as Arthur refused to support himself and Francis was forced to half-carry him the whole way. If only Francis had been Alfred's strength he could have accomplished it with ease, but each step took a grunt and another exertion of energy from him, tiring him out by the time they made it down to the main floor.

At this point Francis didn't know what he planned to do once he was downstairs, he definitely couldn't drag him all the way back to his house, so the only option was to stay here with him. He wiped the sweat off his brow he'd gained from the physical activity that didn't have to do with getting naked, not used to it in the least. Then he took a deep breath and grabbed the man again, whose sobbing had been reduced to crying with a large amount of whimpering. He was speaking something too, but the words were too raspy to make out after all the hours of crying that had probably gone on.

Francis pulled Arthur into the kitchen next, which seemed quite natural since whenever he was upset the only thing that could cheer him up was cooking, or eating. Since Arthur wasn't exactly the best cook, eating seemed like the next logical choice, the problem was this wasn't his kitchen, it was Arthur's, and that was who he was cooking for. He had no experience cooking English food, but all he knew was Arthur refused to eat anything French, and he was only stocked to make English food. This couldn't be too hard, he was the world-renowned Francis after all, he could cook anything edible and make it delicious.

As soon as he was finished collecting what small amount of ingredients Arthur had left, Francis let out a sigh, he didn't have much, but he could make him some fish and chips at least. He knew it wasn't exactly a comfort food, but he very well couldn't go out shopping and leave Arthur in a house full of secret rum stores and broken glass. He went about cooking, pushing up his sleeves and using what little knowledge of British cooking he had, caring not about what he got on his shirt and pants.

When he was finished he had a plate of fish and chips that actually looked edible, they were likely a rare breed of English food, but they weren't for him, they were for Arthur. He walked over to him with his sleeves still pushed up and his shirt covered in potato peelings, flour, and a number of other things. "Here you go Arthur, eat up," he tried to put on a smile, but his eyes betrayed him as they were full of sadness and pity for the nation in front of him, wishing he could help him somehow.

The entire time Francis had been cooking Arthur had been whimpering into the table, and when he turned his eyes away from the blanket, cracking them open for the first time all day, he was met with his favorite small food thing to eat. He took a small sniff of it, but found his nostrils mostly clogged from the crying, and after a few seconds Francis realized his dilemma, taking out his handkerchief and handing it to the other. Arthur then took it in his hands, blowing out the insides of his nostrils onto it and nodding a thanks to him, handing it back.

Francis' smile faltered as the handkerchief was returned to him, and he quickly turned around as Arthur sniffed the food, tossing it into the garbage can with the foodstuff that wasn't on his shirt. Then when he turned around, he saw chips in the other's mouth, which caused a sigh of intense relief from the bottom of his lungs. "At least he still has an appetite…" Francis then turned around, looking for a non-alcoholic drink for the other and poured a bit of juice into a tankard for him. He set it next to the fish and chips that had only been nibbled at, and stepped back; the small smile staying on his face as he slowly watched Arthur eat. In his experience at least, hunger seemed to overcome sadness.

When he was finished Francis didn't even speak, only went about cleaning the table and looking back to Arthur who still hadn't said a word to him. He wasn't worried because he was sure he didn't want to talk to anyone right now, but he did wish he could get one little word, no matter how insulting. Once the table was cleaned, Francis went over and picked Arthur up again, managing to get one arm away from the blanket that was still in an iron grasp to his chest.

Francis didn't question why the blanket was important, all he knew was that it wasn't just something he wanted to cry in, it was more than that. Though now he didn't care, he just wanted to get him to bed and see him rest, once he'd taken the blanket away to eat, Francis had noticed the series of bags under his eyes. He probably hadn't slept properly in weeks, and Francis pulled him into the bedroom next, laying him down on the bed and not even bothering undressing him. What he slept in didn't matter at this point, just that he got some sleep, and after eating he would find that a much simpler task.

Once Francis had him laying down and grasping the blanket again he went about his room, fixing things up and removing anything that could have been used as a tool of destruction. Once he held all the old swords and shields in his arms he turned to Arthur, "Good night, mon ami, sweet dreams," and he walked out of the room, stumbling with the items into the living room and placing them in one large pile. He spent the next hour or so collecting everything in the house, including the broken glass and cleaning up the blood on the floor, not complaining once, he just wanted to feel like he was doing something for the one person that he could have ever considered a friend, one whom he had hurt so badly.

In the room Arthur slowly fell asleep, holding the old blanket Arthur had given to Alfred so many years ago to hold when he was sad or scared. Arthur had found it in his bag when he came back, and it broke him to see that in his bags, that Alfred didn't even want it anymore. It somehow comforted him instead now, he would think about Alfred sitting in it as a little kid, and he would imagine holding him in his arms. It would make the other images go away, the images of Alfred standing there looking down at him in pity, and standing there declaring his independence.

His biggest regret after the war, was that now Alfred hated him, and he had never gotten to tell him anything, he had never gotten to apologize for what he'd done. His biggest and only regret toward the now-nation, he just wished he could get him back and maybe try again, try to keep him safe again, make things like they used to be.


End file.
